“It’s like this,” he said.  “When I am with you I am so happy I can’t be serious.  When I am not with you, it is so serious that I am utterly and completely wretched.  You say my love offends you, bores you!  I am sorry, but what, in heaven’s name, do you think your not loving me is doing to me?  I am a wreck!  I am a skeleton!  Look at me!”

He let his bicycle fall, and stood with his hands open at his sides, as though inviting her to gaze upon the ruin she had caused.

Four days of sun and rain, astride of a bicycle, without food or sleep, had drawn his face into fine, hard lines, had bronzed it with a healthy tan.  His uniform, made by the same tailor that fitted him with polo breeches, clung to him like a jersey.  The spectacle he presented was that of an extremely picturesque, handsome, manly youth, and of that fact no one was better aware than himself.

“Look at me,” he begged, sadly.

Miss Farrar was entirely unimpressed.

“I am!” she returned, coldly.  “I never saw you looking so well—­and you know it.”  She gave a gasp of comprehension.  “You came here because you knew your uniform was becoming!”

Lathrop regarded himself complacently.

“Yes, isn’t it?” he assented.  “I brought on this war in order to wear it.  If you don’t mind,” he added, “I think I’ll accept your invitation and come inside.  I’ve had nothing to eat in four days.”

Miss Farrar’s eyes flashed indignantly.

“You’re not coming inside,” she declared; “but if you’ll only promise to go away at once, I’ll bring you everything in the house.”

“In that house,” exclaimed Lathrop, dramatically, “there’s only one thing that I desire, and I want that so badly that ’life holds no charm without you.’”

Miss Farrar regarded him steadily.

“Do you intend to drive me away from my own door, or will you go?”

Lathrop picked his wheel out of the dust.

“Good-by,” he said.  “I’ll come back when you have made up your mind.”

In vexation Miss Farrar stamped her foot upon the path.

“I have made up my mind!” she protested.

“Then,” returned Lathrop, “I’ll come back when you have changed it.”

He made a movement as though to ride away, but much to Miss Farrar’s dismay, hastily dismounted.  “On second thoughts,” he said, “it isn’t right for me to leave you.  The woods are full of tramps and hangers-on of the army.  You’re not safe.  I can watch this road from here as well as from anywhere else, and at the same time I can guard you.”

To the consternation of Miss Farrar he placed his bicycle against the fence, and, as though preparing for a visit, leaned his elbows upon it.

“I do not wish to be rude,” said Miss Farrar, “but you are annoying me.  I have spent fifteen summers in Massachusetts, and I have never seen a tramp.  I need no one to guard me.”